


Odds and Ends

by Issay



Series: One-shot collection [6]
Category: The Halcyon (TV)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Epistolary, Fluff, Historical Inaccuracy, Historical References, Holocaust, Knitting, Multi, Period-Typical Homophobia, Slice of Life, Slow Romance, War, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-06
Updated: 2017-04-05
Packaged: 2018-09-30 00:32:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10148855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Issay/pseuds/Issay
Summary: She laughs and cries a bit over his letter, and then puts it with the others, in the top drawer of the desk in her room, ties with a blue satin ribbon. She’ll reach for them when she feels the need to hear his voice again, even if only in her head.Joe and Emma in letters throughout the last year of the war (and a bit more).





	1. 1944

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, so:  
> 1\. This is NOT completely historically accurate. Remember that a lot of it is in first person, they didn't have the full knowledge of some issues we know now.  
> 2\. Not beta'ed because, well, just my luck. If you happen to spot something, let me know.

London, 25 May 1944

_Mister O’Hara,_

_The Halcyon is so very boring without you to keep us on our toes. No one to sniff out secrets and little scandals? Shocking! We’ve grown so accustomed to your presence, the lack of it is just glaring. The bar staff misses you most dearly – I’ve been ordered not to inform you of this but poor boys don’t know what to do with themselves before 5 PM when the bar starts filling again._

_The American troops keep us busy, however. We have hosted some of the higher military staff – I believe I have to thank you for that since you were the one to recommend us to them. Right now more than a half of our guests are in uniform. We’ve started organizing dance parties again, Papa found a new singer (the previous girl fell in love and left us to join her boy) and she’s… Well, adequate, I suppose. I’ll never like another singer, even after all this time. The band podium still looks strange without them, you know? They’ve been gone for years but I still keep expecting Betsey to start another sad song about September. Anyway, the parties are a hit. Adil says that since it became obvious the invasion was near, the enlisted men started spending money like the world was about to end. We’re not complaining. I barely have time to sit down and write a few words._

_The influx of money means that we can finally upgrade rooms and apartments in the older part of the building. We can’t really afford to close all of them so we’re juggling the remodelling – Lady H wasn’t overly happy at first but she and Papa have been spending a lot of time on this recently. I guess this means Her Ladyship warmed to the idea of having the décor updated, as well as the newest comforts added. Your room has been already remodelled and is patiently waiting for its inhabitant to come home. As am I._

_I hope you’re staying safe. Even though I know you won’t be in the line of fire, sometime in the future you’ll be heading into a war zone – honestly, Mister O’Hara, what happened to that famous self-preservation of yours? I miss it a little. I don’t think I’ll be able to stop thinking about what a stray bullet or a mortar can do. Here’s to hope I won’t be completely grey by the time you finally return from your ‘wartime adventure’._

_I shall send this letter with the morning post of a certain general – maybe it’ll reach you faster this way. Do keep in mind that we’re all thinking about you and impatiently waiting the day of your return (some more than others). If this is the last letter before the troops are deployed, I’ll just remind you of this: do not get shot, Mister O’Hara, or I shall be very cross with you._

_As always, yours,_

_Emma Garland_

*

Her letters always smell of flower compositions and sweet perfume used to freshen the air. To him, they smell like home.

*

England, 3 June 1944

_Dear Miss Garland,_

_Your letter was, as always, a pleasure to read. I assure you, in the spirit of self-preservation (which is not forgotten, just taken a back seat for a little moment on the wave of historic events) I have every intention of not getting shot or blown up. Rest assured, I will be with the high command and will probably never see actual fighting – as you know, I’m there only to listen to the stories and document life on the front lines. They say here we’ll be in Berlin before Christmas and I believe them. You’ll see._

_I cannot tell you where exactly I am – sorry for the secrecy but the Army demands it – but I doubt there will be another occasion to correspond from British soil. Do not be surprised if the next letter travels to you all the way from the Continent._

_The mood here is a strange one – on one hand there’s what I’ve came to expect: the bravado, willingness to kill the enemy and end this as far as humanly possible. Some of those boys haven’t seen their families in over a year, it’s normal that they want to go home. But one can also sense the undercurrent of fear – combat is not an abstract anymore, it’s very real and uncomfortably close. It hits them especially hard when they sign the insurance policies for the event of their death in battle. It has to be a crushing thought and I found myself thinking about it, even though I’m not heading into the melee of guns, mortars and bayonets. But it is hard to disregard the notion of dying, especially when facing the machinery of war. I think back to the early days of the Phony War when my only contact with the military was that one small airfield and now I see how tiny, almost primitive it was._

_But don’t worry. I’ll keep myself safe (was that sarcasm in the bit about my self-preservation, Miss Garland?) and come home in one piece. Just you wait._

_Fondly,_

_Joe O’Hara_

*

She laughs and cries a bit over his letter, and then puts it with the others, in the top drawer of the desk in her room, ties with a blue satin ribbon. She’ll reach for them when she feels the need to hear his voice again, even if only in her head.

*

London, 17 June 1944

_Mister O’Hara,_

_I do not know where this letter will find you – hopefully in good health and high spirits since the invasion seems to be a long-awaited success. We here are all over the moon that the Krauts are finally withdrawing. Reading newspapers is exciting again and we had to double our usual subscriptions since all the guests want to get their news first thing in the morning. Evenings are filled with political discussions in the bar as well as the lobby, we even have some armchair generals trying to predict the troop movements. They are mostly the aristocrats who fought in the previous War and probably know little about the modern warfare, but they still have a major following. Even if their predictions are completely wrong, they’re still rather optimistic and cheer people up. For so long we didn’t have anything to be cheerful about, it’s a welcome change._

_All quiet on the home front. Well, almost – mister Klein’s family is about to expand. Peggy ordered a swift knitting attack: dear child will be equipped with knitted booties, socks, dresses, jackets, blankets and a lot of other things. Even some of the guests joined the fun and there’s – I’m not kidding – a knitting circle, every day from 4 pm, in the dining room. Her Ladyship frowned at first but I think Papa persuaded her by saying it’s good for the morale. Also, waiting for the evening newspaper goes quicker when one’s hands aren’t idle._

_Enclosed, you’ll find a pair of woollen knitted socks. If you’re spending Christmas in Berlin then at least keep your feet warm._

_Anxiously waiting for your reply,_

_Emma Garland_

*

He’s tired to the bone when her letter and a small package arrive. He reads the message first – good thing he did. The socks are a bit scratchy but they’re warm and she made them for him. That makes up for any discomfort.

*

Somewhere in Normandy, 30 June 1944

_Dear Miss Garland,_

_I don’t even know where to begin._

_The last three weeks have been the most insane, breath-taking, nerve-wracking experience of my entire life. There are literally no words for the atmosphere of the front line during such a massive, coordinated attack. I’ve been billeted with high-ranking officers, as you know, and I’ve been travelling with them or rather: trailing after front-line troops. It’s very different than anything I’ve read about warfare, I’ll admit that freely and to anyone who asks._

_But the stories I’ve been hearing! It’s the strangest, most wonderful assortment of variations on old themes. Just today a man called Billy Malone told me a story about a flask his sweetheart gave him before he was shipped out. The girl made him promise to always carry it with him, as if he was carrying a piece of her heart. So he did, he had it in his breast pocket, just above his heart, when he went into combat on Omaha Beach. And imagine this: a German bullet hit him right in the flask, destroying the thing, but not hurting him at all! I wouldn’t have believed that – since the story sounds rather familiar, since a lot of similar accounts usually accompany any war. But Billy Malone was no liar and he’s shown me both what was left of the flask and even the bullet itself._

_There were others, of course. Like Jamie, a young paratrooper, who jumped from a plane into Normandy hours before the invasion started, and who swears some unearthly force saved his hide as he landed mere meters from a German anti-artillery station, unnoticed by the soldiers. I’ve heard a medic swearing that there were ghosts of men in uniforms from the Great War in the morning mists over the beaches of Normandy, protecting the brave soldiers from Kraut bullets. Or even more gruesome ones, like talk about a company commander who got so mad he shot an entire group of prisoners. The last one, I don’t believe – prisoners are precious because they have the knowledge about placement of garrisons and anti-aircraft stations. But the rest of them? It’s not for me to say what is possible on the battlefield._

_I do know, however, that I sorely miss the kitchens of The Halcyon – army chow serves its purpose and I guess that what they’re giving in the officer’s mess is miles better than what they’re feeding enlisted men with. But it’s not nearly as tasty or beautifully prepared like what I’m used to eating (and you can relay this to the chefs, I won’t deny it once I’m back). Also, sometimes there is no time for food so I’ve lost some weight and I expect I’ll have to get my suits re-sized once I’m back in the civilized world._

_All in all, at the end of the day I’m so tired I don’t even care about the state of the room (I usually share with a jolly fellow from Edinburgh, he writes for a gazette there) as long there’s a bed. I’m told we should be arriving in another small French village somewhere in Normandy, and there should be a bed at the end of the road. So I’ll hopefully be able to mail this letter and catch a couple of hours of sleep. They really don’t tell you how exhausting war-time reporting is!_

_Fondly,_

_Joe_

*

His letter arrives when she’s still weeping. She reads it much later, drawing some bitter comfort from his words, and then bursts out crying again because it seems the world is a dark and scary place, and that nothing good will ever happen to her again. Writing the answer takes her time and tears falling onto the hotel stationary.

*

London, 12 July 1944

_~~Mister O’Ha~~ _ _Dear Joe,_

_I’m not sure if the news had reached you but Freddie Hamilton’s plane has been shot down over the Channel. His body hasn’t been recovered from the wreckage – for the fear of U-Boots in the area, I believe – but Her Ladyship has been notified of her son’s death by some sort of high officer in person._

_As you can imagine, carrying on isn’t as easy as the posters would have us believe. But we’ll get through it eventually._

_It’s so hard to believe that sweet, timid Toby is Lord Hamilton now. He instructed the entire staff to not address him as such. He still believes he can stay himself and have the title. Who knows, maybe this war will change so much he’ll be even able to do so. For now, however, he’s just in denial and I think he still expects Freddie to come through the front door of The Halcyon any minute. The realization hit him eventually and I pray someone will be around to pick up the pieces when it does. Maybe Adil who in recent months (as unbelievably as it sounds) apparently became Toby’s friend and chess partner. I doubt that Her Ladyship will be up for the challenge. Papa is the only person she allows into her apartment. I don’t think she’s even seen Toby since that officer gave her the news._

_I’m sorry this is not a more entertaining letter but things at home are far from entertaining right now. I’m finding some solace in the knitting circle I’ve mentioned last time. Since little girl or boy Klein (the proud father says it’ll be a boy this time, his wife only smiles) already has everything such a small person could need and more, the circle decided to knit socks, scarves and hats for the troops. So, once again, enclosed: a set consisting of one scarf, one hat and a pair of mittens made by yours truly. I’ve bought the wool myself (somehow Army decided to provide us the yarn; I believe Papa had something to do with that) so it’s warm but not as scratchy. Use them well._

_Yours,_

_Emma Garland_

*

He needs to go home. So he does, as soon as July is over and they return to England. The leadership is too busy preparing another very secretive offensive so he’d be bored anyway, or at least it’s how he rationalizes things these days.

There’s a few days worth of furlough after their return from Normandy so Joe catches a ride to London and says goodbye to his new friends from Airborne a few streets away from The Halcyon. They’ll pick him up in four days unless they all get called back again, of course. He smiles at the familiar streets as he walks briskly towards the hotel.

He barely makes it through the door before he has his arms full of laughing, crying Emma.

“I’ve missed you,” she whispers, not letting him go so he holds her as tightly as he dares, exchanges a nod with Mister Garland over her head and sends Peggy a smile. There’s a woman he doesn’t know in the reception but other than that The Halcyon still looks the same way it did when he entered it for the first time four years ago.

He finds it fascinating but people seem to be genuinely happy to see him.

“It’s good you’re here,” says Garland the elder that evening when they’re both standing by the backdoor and smoking. “She stopped looking like she’s going to burst out crying any minute.”

“She loved him, grief is natural, I suppose.” Joe takes a long drag and exhales slowly. “Emma is a strong girl, she’ll be fine.”

“O’Hara?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t get killed. We’ll have a conversation about your intentions toward my daughter when this damned war is over.”

And with that, he leaves. Joe stands there for a moment, speechless and maybe more than a bit breathless at the prospect of the future.

*

Paris, 29 August 1944

_Dear Emma,_

_The lights of Paris are brighter than I could ever imagine. The city is beautiful and joyous – I deeply regret not being able to bottle some of this atmosphere up and send it to you. It’s simply spectacular: life has returned to the streets of France’s capital after a long period of darkness. Even though it’s been a couple of days since the liberation of Paris, people are still dancing on the streets in the evening; there are musicians on almost every corner and cafes, pubs and restaurants are open until the first daylight._

_To be entirely honest, this is probably the first time I’ve felt hopeful that we really are close to what could be the end of this war. It’s not even about the military might of nations united and fighting towards a common cause – it’s the spirit, the optimism in the air. People are tired – we are all tired by the tedious yet impossibly hard task of surviving. There are children who never knew the safety of being sure there will be no bombing, who never tasted real chocolate and who now for the first time in years are free to play in the streets. The sound of their laughs hit me as strange, but the really strange thing is that I’ve forgot that sound._

_Hope blooms in the ruins of Europe._

_I’ve met a lot of new people – clerks, assistants, administrative workers and young, ambitious officers are crowding the city. Hotels, hostels and rooms for rent are the most desired so prices went up so much I’m incredibly grateful this money won’t come out of my pocket. I have a tiny room in a four-star hotel all to myself. It’s a far cry from the luxury of The Halcyon, the staff isn’t as attentive as they should be and the alcohol menu is most atrocious. In other words, I miss home._

_The army pushes on but for the time being I’ll be staying in Paris. Along with a couple of colleagues I want to hear about the reality of life under Nazi rule so we’ll be probably venturing out of the city but not far (and miles away from active fighting so you don’t have to worry) – going down south seems like a good idea but the region is far from stable these days. In autumn, maybe. Though if my suspicions are correct, autumn may be a very busy time for everyone here._

_But, back to the city! During sight-seeing I had the pleasure of finding a tiny shop owned by this sweet old lady. She helped me choose it and I’m sending it to you in hopes that you’ll like it at least as much as I did._

_Fondly,_

_Joe_

*

She opens the package in the quiet of her own room – she got teased mercilessly on her way there but Emma doesn’t mind, it’s all in good spirit and women in The Halcyon could use a distraction – and blushes. The moss-green lace shawl is just stunning and she can already say it’s going to be a favorite. Then she notices a small box at the bottom of the package and hesitantly reaches for it. The silver broche with a small cameo in black and white takes her breath away for a little while.

*

London, 17 September 1944

_Dear Joe,_

_I’m rather certain you didn’t really think the idea of gift-giving through. The beautiful set you’ve sent me – and I’d much prefer to thank you for it in person! – became the object of jealousy and I cannot even begin to tell you how many ladies asked me where I got it. Your secret is safe with me, though, so you don’t have to be afraid of a flood of letters begging you to repeat the purchase._

_Unless you want, of course._

_Things on the home front are slow as always, the only excitement coming from morning and evening newspapers, as well as the regular radio dispatches. Well, maybe not only – two days ago we had a little bit of a morbid adventure, I guess. One of our guest, an old aristocrat from Belgium died in his bed. It wouldn’t be a cause for a stir if it wasn’t for the person who informed us of this development: a young, visibly uncomfortable lady of questionable morals. Though maybe I should not judge, after all, it is war and not everyone is fortunate enough to have a job or a breadwinner at home. Back to the topic – the count died in his sleep on the poor girl, imagine that (Papa would scold me for sharing this with you!)._

_Toby is finally settling in as Lord Hamilton – he has given Papa free reigns over The Halcyon. I can see they are both pleased by this decision. The only change is Adil being promoted to the position of His Lordship’s personal body man, and I’m really happy for him: he’s much too smart and too insightful to be mixing drinks for the rest of his life._

_In other news, our chefs do wonders to work with the provisions we can get them but some guests don’t care about that little thing called war and are very unhappy with the menu. Personally I don’t see anything wrong with it – their aristocratic stomachs can survive eating chickens instead of geese. They should be grateful they can still get baked potatoes with garlic – prices of potatoes are at their wartime high and we have taken to growing garlic, parsley and dill ourselves in large flowerpots._

_Another singer was hired! This time it’s a man – a little scandalous since most of the able-bodied men are on the front lines right now. His name is James Teal and he says he has heart problem but after seeing him perform for almost three hours straight I highly doubt it. Sarah, one of the maids, says he’s a spy sent to observe us and our guests. A bit fantastical, don’t you think? I’d bet that he simply has a medical professional in the family and managed to avoid service this way. The longer I think about it, the harder it is not to condemn him (especially when you’re there) so I’ll just stop thinking about the entire thing._

_Yours,_

_Emma_

*

For the first time in years Joe feels his age – he’s tired to the bone and sorely misses home, the friendly corridors of The Halcyon, the love visible in every corner of that old place. He’s spent the entire day in the field, didn’t have time to catch anything to eat, and he just wants to go to sleep on the hard, uncomfortable mattress his Paris hotel provides. But there’s a letter waiting for him in the reception, a letter addressed in handwriting he knows and loves so much, and the slowly comfort seeps into his tired body.

*

Paris, 3 October 1944

_Dear Emma,_

_As you probably already know (I honestly have no idea when this letter will reach you, the military post has been experiencing problems as you’ve undoubtedly noticed) Christmas in Berlin probably won’t happen after the Market/Garden operation has failed. The mood among military personnel is, unsurprisingly, sour and the few Airborne troopers have been very bitter in their opinions on everything from reconnaissance and intelligence gathering before the operation to the leadership and lack of communication between units during the fighting. I’m honestly surprised by how open they are – even in those dark days after Dunkirk our boys haven’t been this bitter (or at least not in front of the press, in any rate)._

_Anyway, the warm socks? Bloody brilliant, I can already tell you they’re life servers. This fall will turn to winter rather quickly, I’m afraid. Though it will probably mean that the fighting will stop or at least slow down – I’m quietly hoping to be able to catch a boat back to Britain and maybe spend Christmas in London since Berlin isn’t likely to happen. Keep your fingers crossed, my dear Emma._

_In the meantime, I’m facing quite a vexing mystery here. As you know, I’ve been staying mostly in Paris and around the city, talking to ordinary people about the reality of living in the occupied country, about newly recovered freedoms and independence. And I tried to reach the group I’ve known to be prosecuted – the Jews. But it looks like they’re all gone. Where? I do not know. My guide was strangely tight-lipped when I asked him about what happened to previous tenants of quarters I have known to be Jewish. All she said was that they were, and I quite, “peacefully relocated to lands needing settlers and farmers”. Who the hell would mistake people who lived in the capital city for generations for settlers and farmers? And that little detail – “peacefully”. I can’t get it out of my head but somehow no one wants to even talk to me about this. But I won’t let this go. There’s a story here, I can feel it – though a dark and tragic one, something tells me._

_Write to me, Emma. Tell me all about the knitting circle and Adil’s new job (congratulate him for me, would you?), about the new singer and which book you’re reading right now. Know, my dear, that those details keep homesickness at bay and bring some dose of comfort._

_Yours, as always fondly,_

_Joe_

*

She’s patient. The post has been slower and slower so his letters don’t come as quickly as she would like it – but by now she’s learned to deal with it. In her desk Emma keeps a small notebook of things she wants to share with him in the next letter, small details and questions and stories.

The joy of getting that next envelope with military stamps in English and French never ceases to take her breath away.

*

London, 30 October 1944

_Dear Joe,_

_Oh, how I do hope you’ll be back for Christmas! It’s hard to imagine you not being here, to be entirely honest (and it’s the middle of the night so I’m feeling bold and honest right now). We’re already planning the celebrations: apparently getting enough provisions will be much harder than expected. Not to mention costly. Very costly, judging by the depth of Papa’s frown._

_Adil is very happy in his new job, though Toby is a surprisingly demanding boss – we even had to move them into adjacent rooms so that poor Mr Joshi can be on hand day and night. But I’m really proud of Adil. He’s just blooming (and I guess moving out of his small, low-rent apartment and into a comfortable hotel room was a welcome perk). From what I’ve gathered he’s mainly responsible for making sure Toby remembers to eat, sleep and go to meetings – so he’s more of a nanny than body man. They sometimes go out together for work meetings with Adil being the secretary but since he can’t go into the Office, those are rare occasions._

_~~(Speaking of the Office – greetings to the man or woman who sent back the previous version of this letter with some censorship issues and my grammar mistakes marked in red ink!)~~ _

_The knitting circle is going strong, hence another package with socks (from the ladies) and a sweater (from me). It has taken a me a while to knit it but I hope it’ll be a comfort. I know it gets colder every day – I’ve had to have a new coat made because my old one was too threadbare and I’m afraid I’d freeze to death. Fortunately I’ve found a war widow in Peggy’s street who makes a living by designing and sewing – she’s a real life saver._

_You asked about books – well, I’ve borrowed one from your room (which is ready and awaiting your return) – the well-read copy of “All Quiet on the Western Front”. It seems that I cannot escape war so why fight it? I’ll be happy to discuss Remarque’s vision and compare it to what you’ve seen on the lines of this current conflict. Papa says Remarque is very insightful and his recounting of the Great War is true. Did you know that Nazis banned this book and reportedly even burned its copies? Barbaric! No wonder the entire nation hasn’t learned anything from the previous war._

_I have also taken the liberty of discussing with Papa the story you’re chasing and you may be right, it truly seems like a dreadful tale. Apparently some two years ago a man came to London from Poland with a report on how the entire (apparently rather sizeable) population of Jewish citizens is being mistreated, locked in ghettos and “relocated” east, never to be heard from again. His report was discredited as propaganda but Papa said the man was so distraught by this, he actually killed himself after hearing no one will do a thing._

_Papa says: be careful. If the people of Paris don’t want to talk about what was done to their neighbors, it may mean they had something to do with it. Don’t push too much, the collaborators never like being confronted but you might have more luck with resistance fighters as they are less likely to have history with cooperating with the enemy._

_And I just say: be careful and I’ll see you in December._

_Missing you,_

_Emma_

*

He uses every and any resource he can to get himself shipped back to London. Fortunately, he’s not the only one – a group of reporters and correspondents finally manages to secure themselves means to get to Britain.

Joe goes back to his room and smiles widely for the first time in what feels like months, secure in the knowledge that just couple of weeks more and he’ll be home again.

*

Paris, 17 November 1944

_Dear Emma,_

_Do not reply to this letter! When it reaches you, I’ll hopefully already be on my way to London with fellow journalists craving warmth and comforts. Apparently I’m not the only one who just needs to be back in Britain for Christmas and since there’s power in numbers… Well. Wait for me, would you?_

_I have received your letter today but since I want to send the reply today, there’s no time to write at length. But please, thank your father for his advice – I haven’t thought of turning to resistance movement with this but I believe Mr Garland is right and they may be more talkative._

_Cannot wait to discuss Remarque with you._

_As always, yours, but this time in a hurry to catch the military postman,_

_Joe_

*

It’s late in the evening when he comes through The Halcyon’s door and stops, taking in the foyer with Christmas decorations, quiet and so breathtakingly familiar. He can hear music from behind bar’s closed doors and the feint scent of cigarette smoke.

“Jesus,” he mutters to himself. “This place just refuses to ever change.”

The girl working nightshift smiles at him from behind reception desk and slides his key towards him even before he has the chance to say his name and room number.

“Welcome back, mister O’Hara, I’m Julianne. Should I inform miss Garland that you’re home?”

Joe can’t help but smile at her choice of words and something warm clenches deep inside his chest.

“Yes, please. If she’s not asleep already, that is.”

The girl considers him with a twinkle in her eyes, like she knows something he doesn’t and is very pleased with herself.

“I believe she wouldn’t mind being woken up for this but I know for a fact that miss Garland participates in the worst-kept secret card game in history of London. Go right upstairs, mister O’Hara, you know the way.”

He goes, chuckling softly, and there’s spring in his step.

 


	2. 1945

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to be as historically accurate and as respectful as I could. Warnings from tags and previous chapter still apply!

He knows that returning to France will be hard on him – but has no idea exactly how hard until he’s standing on the platform, waiting for the train, Emma’s hand tightly clutching his and there are tears shining in her eyes.

“I know you have to go,” she says quietly, red lips trembling slightly. “But I still don’t want you to.”

His stay in London was prolonged by the desperate situation in Ardennes so the last couple of reports he gave in the comfortable radio studio, basing it on reports from War Office and the journalists who elected to stay in Paris. Before, he didn’t have a choice but now there’s a transport willing to take him to France along with a couple of reporters he knows. Joes can’t stay any longer, he realizes that and it threatens to choke him. As much as he loves it in The Halcyon, with lazy evenings over drinks, long conversations with Toby and Adil, and Emma, Emma, Emma. Always her. But there is duty he feels the strange need to fulfill.

“It won’t be long,” he whispers back and presses a brief, sweet kiss on the back of her hand. “Once the Ardennes offensive is broken, the road to Germany will open. The war will be over soon, dear Emma. Wait for me?”

“You know I will,” she smiles bravely. He has to go, he knows. The train will be leaving soon. Emma nods encouragingly towards the nearest car. “I’ll be fine, Joe, really. I’ll see you when it’s over.”

He wants to say something else, anything, really – but there are no words in his head so he simply picks up his baggage and looks at her one more time, willing to keep the memory of her in front of his eyes forever. The tears spilled on her pale cheeks and her lips are trembling now (he remembers, now, that she was the person to see Freddie off when he was leaving for France, and can’t help but wonder if she’s remembering that now).

Just before he turns away, she suddenly grabs the lapels of his coat, pulls him towards her and kisses him. The world doesn’t stop, there are no fireworks over their heads, they’ve done this before, a lifetime ago  – but Joe feels like earth moved beneath his feet. When she lets him go, he’s breathless and his lips are probably red with her lipstick but he doesn’t really care.

He leaves, feeling his heart swell deep within his chest.

*

In transit – France, 15-25 January 1945

_Dearest Emma,_

_To my great surprise, the press corps was given an opportunity to move closer to the front lines of the Battle of the Bulge. Before you start worrying, I promise to be careful, and I doubt we will be allowed anyplace dangerous. After all, we’re precious cogs in a machine and someone has to report things to folks back home. So here we are, in cars and trucks going through the night (well, dusk. Still enough light to at least begin this letter but I expect it’ll take me a couple of days to complete it as free time is a rare commodity)._

_16 th_

_I can hear the mortar fire from the front lines. I’m billeted with some poor sod from_ Stars & Stripes _who couldn’t sleep because of it – he was rather surprised when I told him it’s nothing compared to London in the middle of the Blitz. Then, of course, he started asking questions about MY experiences in the war, can you believe it? Also, he had a rather decent bottle of a little pick-me-up so I told him a story or two. Or maybe more since he kept me up almost all night. Krauts finally gave up somewhere around 0300 military time and we could go to sleep – only to be woken up mere three hours later! Purely inhuman but I managed to catch a bit of sleep en route. I’m getting quite good at sleeping in cars._

_19 th_

_Spent the day talking to soldiers – the regular Joes, not officers (they have more important things to do with their time, apparently. Quite a rude bunch, to be honest). What a sorry sight they are! Most didn’t have a decent shower in more than a month – the camp smells rather ripe, I won’t get into details – with gear shabby and dirty. Those poor boys are gaunt and thin, from what I’ve been hearing, they were sent to fight without proper clothing or food supplies, and when they were surrounded, weather conditions made re-supplying them impossible. But all of those things will pass – there’s warm water and clean clothes, medicine for infected wounds and enough food and sweets for them. However, most of their scars aren’t visible. Their eyes, Emma! Their eyes are haunted and empty, eyes that have seen more death and destruction in that passed month than anyone should in an entire lifetime. And this war, their war, isn’t over yet. I’m truly fearing for them and for the lives they’ll lead once they can go home._

_They’ve told me stories about incompetent officers and about heroic deaths of beloved friends; of solidarity in arms and cowardice of the worst kind. What can I use in my dispatches? How can I talk about one without the other? It wouldn’t be fair to those broken boys. But is talking about their misery patriotic? Wouldn’t it undermine the efforts of the war bond drives and promotional actions? Those are some heavy thoughts and my head doesn’t rest any easier because of them._

_21 st_

_I’ve had a chance to talk with the civilian populace in the town of Haguenau – or at least what is left of it. It’s still in France but a spitting distance away from Germany: people of Alsace-Lorraine were always the first to feel the heavy hand of German army, both in the past and now._

_I was looking at those women who wore threadbare clothes, clean but mended many times; at their children safely tucked away in cellars because it’s too dangerous above ground for them, and I thanked the good Lord that you never had to share their fate. Their men, teenage sons and daughters were taken away as forced labor, their food supplies are diminished and there’s no way to cultivate any crops in this barren war zone. But they’re stuck, there are no means to evacuate civilians, everything taken for the needs of military transports, and I’m not even sure if they’d want to leave their ruins. One of the old women told me that her husband, son, his wife and their teenage son were all taken, she’s the only one left so she has to stay in Haguenau because if she leaves and they’ll come back, they won’t know where to look for her._

_My heart is breaking for them. I’ve left in that little encampment my whole supply of dry rations and sweets. They need them more than I do, and I can always eat in the mess (or what is now called a mess: mobile kitchen unit with nutritious but not really good food). For the people left here, the only hope is coming of spring, and that the front will finally move forward, allowing the relief efforts to start._

_25 th_

_I find myself missing you much more than before – I woke up absolutely convinced that I can smell the scent of your perfume and feel your hand on my face even though you are far away, in the relative safety of England. It was just one of those things between being asleep and fully awake, and quickly passed. But, in the result, I miss you, I miss you, I miss you._

_I’ll send this letter in the morning – no idea where I’ll be when it reaches you._

_Lovingly yours,_

_Joe_

*

She reads excerpts from his letters out loud to the knitting circle, ladies gathering around her and drinking her – his – every word. Peggy mentions to Emma’s father that the girl is even changing her voice a little, reading Joe’s missives with his intonation, and that’s widely considered to be absolutely adorable. If Mr. Garland has an opinion about this, he keeps it to himself. He just hopes that no stray bullet finds Joe because he’s pretty sure Emma wouldn’t survive another loss.

*

London, 14 February 1945

_Dearest Joe,_

_I hope you’re still in Europe and not taking notes on Yalta conference (it would make me very cross to know you went even further away from me). If papers are to be believed, the end of this war is just around the corner – Ecuador, Paraguay and Peru finally decided to jump on the bandwagon and join the war, too little too late, if you ask me. Belgium was declared free of German forces. The Colmar Pocket (Adil asked me in private what if it has anything to do with calamari or actual pockets – I had the hardest time trying not to laugh because obviously I immediately imagined calamari with pockets!) was finally closed and that’s it for Germans west of Rhine. And just this morning we’ve heard on the wireless about a successful bombing mission in Dresden._

_I can’t be happy about that last one. I’m sure they deserved it very well but I still remember the dread I’ve felt every time bombs fell on London and I can’t help but feel sorry for the poor mothers and their children, stuck in Dresden. Is it unpatriotic, to feel sorry for German women? How do you think, did they feel sorry for us at the beginning of the war? It’s all very complicated and confusing, really. I think it’s wiser to not speak out about certain things these days and it seems this is one of them._

_The knitting circle has had a lot of fun finding Peru, Ecuador and Paraguay on the map. Even more when one of the guests, a Spanish viscount of some sorts, started regaling them with stories about these three countries. And I’m not sure if I should still call it a knitting circle, really, since all kinds of crafts are happening these days – knitting, crocheting, embroidery, and of course regular sewing and mending. But anything other than “knitting circle” doesn’t have such a nice ring to it._

_In other news, we need a new singer! Apparently Mr. Teal’s luck has ran out, or, more likely, someone informed the appropriate Office that he’s been actively avoiding service. Of course, once he received a letter concerning this, he pretty much disappeared overnight: Papa learned about the whole thing from a friend of his. Sad, really. And now we need to go through the whole process of looking and hiring again. I’m pretty sure the number of singers in this town is finite and we’ll have to deal with just jazz musicians for a while instead._

_The things you wrote about those young soldiers and about the civilian life during this last push of the war really moved me. Write it all down, Joe. Even if you can’t talk about them in your reports (and you can’t, not really), you can always publish a book after the war. This conflict is so big and tragic and reaches so far, people will want to read about it in ages to come. And the grand historians will write about armies and leaders, about generals and despots – but who will write about the regular Joes and French grandmothers who await the return of their loved ones against all odds? This war took as to the end of our hope. Someone will have to tell a story about how we made it through, and you have a knack for it. It can be you._

_And, Joe? I’m really hoping you’re not in Yalta!_

_Yours and loving,_

_Emma_

*

He chuckles, reading her letter, and that draws attention of other men in the bivouac.

“Letter from a sweet lady, sir?” asks one of them, Joshua, or at least that’s what Joe thinks his name is. He’s a good kid but not overly subtle. Joe smiles at him.

“Yeah. I’ve got a good woman at home.”

“Thought you ain’t married, sir,” adds another one, he’s new, a replacement with huge, naïve eyes and a clean uniform. Others gave him a wide berth. The fate of a replacement.

“I’m not.” Joe folds the letter and puts it into his inside pocket. “But I figure I will be if I manage to talk her into marrying such an old fool like me.”

*

Paris, 6 March 1945

_My dearest girl,_

_(or that’s how a friendly veteran told me to open my letters from now on, probably speaking with years of experience I lack. What do you think?)_

_We’ve been moved back from Alsace to the French capital with orders – or rather instructions since it’s the press corps – to await information on another push, this time into Germany itself. So I have a couple of, hopefully, days, not weeks, to enjoy civilized world of warm baths, a comfortable mattress and cream in my coffee. But I’m enjoying these commodities with an anxious feeling of being stuck in one place, not moving forward. After sitting, useless, for two days, I have decided to revisit a question I’ve asked some time ago in our correspondence: what happened to the French Jews?_

_I have to warn you, love, that this letter may be more upsetting than the others and you might want to read it with a small glass of that cherry liquor you like._

_Following your fathers’ suggestion I have managed to contact a Resistance member willing to talk to me about this – but I shall not name him, after his own request to stay anonymous. From what I’ve gathered, speaking about these events isn’t ‘popular’ with people of France as most would like nothing more than to forget it ever happened._

_So, we knew the legal persecution from what Mr. Klein and his wife have told us, as well as certain newspaper articles and letters to the editor. More or less the same rule of unjust discrimination was installed here – but it didn’t end there. As my informant tells me, in the middle of July 1942 over thirteen thousand Jews: men, women and children, because monsters do not care about age, were arrested and interred at Vel d’Hiv stadium with no food or water. Then, in rail cattle cars (because that does not sound ominous at all!) they were shipped East. Where? My informant does not know but he did tell me that no one from that transport was heard from again, and that Nazi officials encouraged people to move into apartments “abandoned by their previous owners”, saying they “won’t be needing them again”. Of course, the official story was resettlement in the newly acquired lands that previously belonged to Russia and other Baltic states._

_That leads us to the area northeast from Paris, or actually in its suburbs if you will, called Drancy. It’s a quaint little place, with a castle and most beautiful park. And what used to be an internment camp._

_My informant took me there – but there wasn’t much left to see, I’m afraid, only the feeling that something very dark and sinister happened, soiling the ground forever. According to records that were recovered after Paris was taken, over sixty thousand people were deported from it – yes, you guessed it, East, to terrains unknown and to never be seen or heard from again._

_The longer I listen to people, the longer I look at the barbaric things one person is able to do to the others, the more I am afraid of what has been done to those people, to the culture, to the beauty-loving peaceful people of France and, I’m afraid, other occupied territories._

_With deepest apologies for the darkness in this letter but it couldn’t have been avoided; as always yours,_

_Joe_

*

She reads his letter once, re-reads it again, and then shows her father. They exchange looks but say nothing because what can be said?

*

London, 22 March 1945

_My dearest and most beloved,_

_(I absolutely adore it, you should thank that man!)_

_Thank you for sharing the results of your investigation with me. It was dark and terrifying, you were right, the cherry liquor helped: but it was necessary. If what you’re fearing is true, if there was only death awaiting those poor people in the East, then someone will have to tell their story, too. Scream it to the heavens and etch it in stone so that the future generations do not repeat it. Like I keep telling you, think about writing that book, will you?_

_I talked about your findings at length with Toby Hamilton and Adil, who never leaves his side these days. Toby says it’s more than plausible that your contact is telling you the whole truth (or even that he doesn’t have all of the information and numbers may be higher), especially in light of some things War Office has been aware of but Toby wouldn’t elaborate. Father had no words on the issue but I’ve seen sadness in his eyes and that told me enough. I would approach Mr. Klein but I’m, not brave enough. Or maybe: I’m not cruel enough. After all, he left friends and some family members behind in this hell and who knows where are they now and whether or not they are still alive._

_The handicraft/knitting circle moved on to studying maps of the Pacific Theatre since it looks like the war in Europe will end long before fighting in Asia does. I don’t have much time to join them (or to write you for which I am deeply sorry, my love, but a girl must sleep!): we’ve lost three maids this past month and it’s hard to find girls who would match the standard without having to be educated at length._

_We’ve been having more and more V-2 bombings (we know them by now, the sound they make is different) and alarms but we didn’t sustain any damage so far, thank God. Could this war just end already?!_

_Tired and desperately missing you,_

_Emma_

*

He doesn’t have a lot of time to read her letter but it makes him smile, like always. It’s a little bit of home in the insanity and tragedy and painful realization that this war ruined everyone and everything.

And then he has to put his helmet back on and return to scribbling in a journal that feels it’s already stuck to the palms of his hands.

*

Celle, 24 April 1945

_My dearest,_

_My heart is heavy, as are my hands, and I hesitated if I should even broach the subject of the days passed in this letter. But I cannot be dishonest and write about weather and the German countryside to protect you from it. And, well, if you don’t hear it from me, you’ll find pictures in newspapers and news reels in cinema (maybe you already have, I don’t know how quick the postal services are these days). Anyway, prepare the cherry liquor, my sweet. I’ll try to recall the events of the last weeks with as much precision as I can muster._

_We crossed the Rhine. That in itself is a fantastical story and I wouldn’t believe it if I didn’t know it’s true: apparently after Remagen, Krauts were in such a hurry to run, they forgot to blow up a bridge over the Rhine. Literally: forgot. Hence, we were able to cross the river and finally into the German territory. I imagine Fuhrer wasn’t too happy with his troops – but I recon at this point all he can do is sit in his bunker and yell at advisors. Anyway, the press corps followed after mobile field hospitals and resupplying units. Little side note: before 1944, I had no idea war operations required this much logistics. I have some newfound respect towards the people who plan all of this._

_Back to the point: brave boys fought, we followed, took pictures, exchanged Hershey’s chocolate and boxes of cigarettes for stories from the front lines – the usual. Russkies took Danzig, we were in Frankfurt. Bratislava fell. Vienna was on fire. We were constantly on the move, here and there, following generals and ordinary Joes. I won’t bore you with details but it was the ordinary bread and butter of any invasion: a scuffle here and there, mortars from time to time, scared civilian populace, bad food, bad weather, mud everywhere. To us, the press: no Nazis in sight. Every civilian I’ve talked to refused to admit to being a Nazi. Honestly, three weeks in this damned country and I didn’t even meet one. Have to give them that: Germans have extraordinary survival instincts._

_(Also, I have to note this: field post is having real trouble finding people so your letter arrived to me rather late.)_

_So when we received news that by special command of general Eisenhower we were to go to a place called Ohrdruf, near the city of Gotha, we jumped on the occasion. It seemed like a good idea: after all, not much new things were happening for us, folks with no film cameras. So we went. Oh, Emma, we went to hell._

_It was… Well, “a camp” is the word we’re using for it. Originally it was a concentration camp for prisoners of war – Germany took a lot of those back in the day – and then turned into a forced labor camp. And then into something darker, more sinister than that. I find myself with no words for what I’ve seen there: atrocious living conditions not suitable for animals, let alone people. Men who didn’t look like men any more, more like pale shadows of men, partially already on the other side. Bodies of those who died of starvation, stacked like cordwood, left with no burial. I’ll never forget the smell._

_I’ve seen grown men weep like little children – and it was very hard to stop tears. The mood after this visit was serious and maybe even depressed, alcohol used to let the emotions go. Not many were able to fall asleep that night, especially after one of the intelligence officers said that since the liberation of Ohrdruf, troops found many more camps like this one: some smaller, some bigger. And that we could go and see one of the bigger ones, if we wished._

_Not many took him on that offer but after careful deliberation and thinking about that book you keep telling me to write, I decided to go. It didn’t feel right, ignoring this horror, leaving it undocumented. Some of my peers went with, and so, some days later, we crossed the threshold of another nightmare called Bergen-Belsen._

_There are no words._

_After seeing what I saw, it is so very hard not to surrender to hate. I fully understand now why some of the enlisted men say that the only good German is a dead one – and I can’t honestly say that I fully disagree with this sentiment. I find new depths of hate and a certain sense of betrayal when I see what humanity has done to fellow men. How could this nation of scientists and artists, of brave, intelligent men and women, do such a horrid thing?_

_A fellow from Belgium, corresponded for some newspaper, told me that Russians found much more gruesome signs of Hitler’s maniacal plans: mass graves for thousands of people, camps dedicated to mass-killing. And it got me thinking. How can we achieve justice for all those victims? All this required a lot of manpower to plan, build, maintain. Logistic plans were made, administrative decisions were made and given. From the generals and political leaders, through mid-level officials and propagandists, to normal soldiers – everyone knew. People living in the villages and cities near the camps (it’s so hard to ignore the smell!) had to know. How can we put them all on trial? And at the same time – can we afford not to? Can we afford to let the perpetrators walk free?_

_God, I hope this country burns to the ground for the sins committed by its citizens. I know I shouldn’t hate all of them but don’t think bad about me if I do, my sweet girl. Finding forgiveness would require for me to be a better man than I am._

_As always, yours,_

_Joe_

*

She doesn’t cry when she reads his letter in the privacy of her room – she’s seen newsreels by now, read the newspapers. Talked to father and Toby at length. Cried, and prayed, and despaired, and then made her peace and carried on, leaning on the faith that justice will be served. There is no time for mourning the incomprehensible loss of life, not yet. The war is almost over, or so the radio told them every morning since the beginning of May.

She longs to see his face again. But there is much to be done, celebrations to prepare for, guests to check in, special wishes to attend to, administrative papers to fill out. Father has been grooming her, Emma knows, she’s tied to this old place whether she likes it or not. She supposes that she does. But would Joe mind…?

Emma doesn’t have time to answer that because right then, suddenly, someone in the lobby yells one word, one precious word they’ve waited to hear for the last six long years, and then the whole street echoes it with joy and in disbelief.

“Victory! Victory! Victory!”

Emma gets up and runs out to find her father, laughing, tears streaming down her face.

 

Few days later Mr. Garland hands his daughter a folded piece of paper and smiles lovingly when she unfolds it with impatient fingers. Her eyes slide over the few words: a date, place and number of the train, and there’s something luminous about her face, something as bright as only youth can be.

“He’s coming home,” Emma whispers and her voice trembles.

The war is over. He’s coming home.


	3. 1946 (Epilogue)

London, 2 July 1946

_Dear James,_

_Do you remember what you told me when I informed you of my transfer to London? I do. You said that you have a feeling you’d have to get used to trans-Atlantic journeys because if I go, I’ll stay there for good. I laughed at you – and damn, brother, I have to apologize for that. My roots are firmly in place._

_I did not expect to fall in love with the place, with its strange cuisine and even stranger, hard-headed people but somehow I cannot imagine leaving this dear old island and coming back to the States. I’ve lived through the most horrendous experiences of my life here: I was shot at, thrown bombs at, I’ve seen buildings collapse in flames, and I’m still alive.  But you already knew that from the spotty correspondence of ours (sorry for that, by the way). I went chasing a war and got some of the best reporting here. However, you do not know about a certain hotel in the centre of London, about the whole cast of wonderful, strange, oh, so very human characters who live in it and take care of it. You’ll laugh – you’re probably laughing right now, I know you! – but there is something about this place, about the tragedies and joys forever locked in these walls. When I moved here six years ago, I was a guest, and not a very well liked one at that. But in time and with no intention on my part The Halcyon became something of a home, a refuge or a harbor. I became a part of it as much as the maids and bellboys, chefs and concierges. “But Joe, you’ve never been a sentimental fool!”, you’ll probably say. Yeah, things change._

_There’s a lady. She’s kind and smart, stupidly brave and sometimes puts me to shame, really. Very nice laugh, but well, I’m not impartial since I believe every bit of her is absolutely lovely and I could be fond of it more. Emma, because that’s her name, patiently waited for me when I took off with the press corps, and then waited for me at a train station when I finally returned, slapped me for leaving, and then kissed me in front of absolutely everyone on the platform. So I guess what I’m trying to say is this: I’m staying. I’ll be still a resident reporter, talking to Americans about European politics (and it looks like things are going to heat up with Russia as soon as we’re all done rebuilding) but BBC also offered me a show. Apparently American perspective is popular once again. Huh. Who knew?_

_Anyway, after everything I’ve seen during the war I didn’t want to waste any more time. For reasons unknown and impossible to understand this beautiful, stubborn young woman agreed to marry this old bastard and I’m not going to second-guess it. We’ve all seen fair share of loss and death. This war… it changed so much in people, James. You can see it in the streets: even the cynical Brits appreciate another day without Blitz alarms and having to sleep in cellars or underground stations. And no one will look twice at people in love, no matter who they are._

_So, brother, pack a bag and come. See some sights, try the local food, attend my wedding – and my bride is very anxious to see you. So? What do you say?_

_Impatiently,_

_Joe_


End file.
